Sense and Sensibility

Key

FID

indirect

intro to FID or indirect

Chapter 44

Elinor, starting back with a
look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in
turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock,
when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a
voice rather of command than supplication,

"Miss Dashwood, for half an
hour — for ten minutes — I entreat you to stay."

"No, sir," she replied with
firmness,"I shall NOT stay. Your
business cannot be with ME. The servants, I suppose, forgot to tell you
that Mr. Palmer was not in the house."

"Had they told
me,"he cried with
vehemence,"that Mr. Palmer and all
his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the
door. My business is with you, and only you."

"With me!" —in the utmost amazement
— "well, sir, — be
quick — and if you can — less violent."

"Sit down, and I will be
both."

She hesitated; she knew not
what to do. The possibility of Colonel Brandon's arriving and finding her
there, came across her. But she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity
no less than her honor was engaged. After a moment's recollection,
therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her
acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table,
and sat down. He took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word
was said by either.

"Pray be quick, sir,"
— said Elinor,
impatiently; — "I have no time to
spare."

He was sitting in an
attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her.

"Your sister," said he, with
abruptness, a moment afterwards — "is out of danger. I
heard it from the servant. God be praised! — But is it true? is it
really true?"

Elinor would not speak. He
repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.

"For God's sake tell me, is
she out of danger, or is she not?"

"We hope she is."

He rose up, and walked
across the room.

"Had I known as much
half an hour ago — But since I AM here," — speaking with a forced
vivacity as he returned to his seat — "what does it signify?
— For once, Miss Dashwood — it will be the last time,
perhaps — let us be cheerful together. — I am in a fine mood
for gaiety. — Tell me honestly" —a deeper glow
overspreading his cheeks — "do you think me most a
knave or a fool?"

Elinor looked at him with
greater astonishment than ever.She began to think
thathe must be in
liquor;— the strangeness of
such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and
with this impression she immediately rose, saying,

"Mr. Willoughby, I advise you
at present to return to Combe — I am not at leisure to remain with you
longer. — Whatever your business may be with me, will it be better
recollected and explained to-morrow."

"I understand
you,"he replied, with an
expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm;"yes, I am very drunk.
— A pint of porter with my cold beef at Marlborough was enough to
over-set me."

"At Marlborough!"
—cried Elinor, more and more
at a loss to understand what he would be at.

"Yes, — I left London
this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes I have spent out of
my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at Marlborough."

The steadiness of his
manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing Elinor, that
whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to Cleveland, he was not
brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's
recollection,

"Mr. Willoughby, you OUGHT to
feel, and I certainly DO — that after what has passed — your
coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a
very particular excuse. — What is it, that you mean by it?"—

"I mean,"— said he, with serious
energy — "if I can, to make you
hate me one degree less than you do NOW. I mean to offer some kind of
explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart
to you, and by convincing you, that though I have been always a
blockhead, I have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like
forgiveness from Ma — from your sister."

"Is this the real reason of
your coming?"

"Upon my soul it is,"
—was his answer, with a
warmth which brought all the former Willoughby to her remembrance, and in
spite of herself made her think him sincere.

"If that is all, you may be
satisfied already, — for Marianne DOES — she has LONG forgiven
you."

"Has she?"
—he cried, in the same
eager tone. — "Then she has forgiven
me before she ought to have done it. But she shall forgive me again, and
on more reasonable grounds. — NOW will you listen to me?"

Elinor bowed her
assent.

"I do not know," said he, after a pause
of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own,
— "how YOU may have
accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you
may have imputed to me. — Perhaps you will hardly think the better
of me, — it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every
thing. When I first became intimate in your family, I had no other
intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time
pleasantly while I was obliged to remain in Devonshire, more pleasantly
than I had ever done before. Your sister's lovely person and interesting
manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the
first, was of a kind — It is astonishing, when I reflect on what
it was, and what SHE was, that my heart should have been so insensible!
But at first I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless
of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to
feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I
endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her,
without any design of returning her affection."

Miss Dashwood, at this
point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by
saying,

"It is hardly worth while,
Mr. Willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer. Such a
beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing. — Do not let me be
pained by hearing any thing more on the subject."

"I insist on you hearing
the whole of it," he replied,"My fortune was never
large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of
associating with people of better income than myself. Every year since
my coming of age, or even before, I believe, had added to my debts; and
though the death of my old cousin, Mrs. Smith, was to set me free; yet
that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for
some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a
woman of fortune. To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a
thing to be thought of; — and with a meanness, selfishness,
cruelty — which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours,
Miss Dashwood, can ever reprobate too much — I was acting in this
manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.
— But one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of
selfish vanity, I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated,
because I did not THEN know what it was to love. But have I ever known
it? — Well may it be doubted; for, had I really loved, could I
have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice? — or, what is
more, could I have sacrificed hers? — But I have done it. To avoid
a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have
deprived of all its horrors, I have, by raising myself to affluence,
lost every thing that could make it a blessing."

"You did then," said Elinor, a little
softened,"believe yourself at one
time attached to her?"

"To have resisted such
attractions, to have withstood such tenderness! — Is there a man
on earth who could have done it? — Yes, I found myself, by
insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my
life were what I spent with her when I felt my intentions were strictly
honourable, and my feelings blameless. Even THEN, however, when fully
determined on paying my addresses to her, I allowed myself most
improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an
unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so
greatly embarrassed. I will not reason here — nor will I stop for
YOU to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of
scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound. The
event has proved, that I was a cunning fool, providing with great
circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible
and wretched for ever. At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I
had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the
attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an
affection which I had already taken such pains to display. But in the
interim — in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass,
before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private
— a circumstance occurred — an unlucky circumstance, to ruin
all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took
place,"—here he hesitated and
looked down. — "Mrs. Smith had somehow
or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose
interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection
— but I need not explain myself farther,"he added, looking at her
with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye —"your particular
intimacy — you have probably heard the whole story long
ago."

"I have," returned Elinor,
colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion
for him, "I have heard it all.
And how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful
business, I confess is beyond my comprehension."

"Remember," cried Willoughby,"from whom you received
the account. Could it be an impartial one? I acknowledge that her
situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not
mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose
that I have nothing to urge — that because she was injured she was
irreproachable, and because I was a libertine, SHE must be a saint. If
the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding —
I do not mean, however, to defend myself. Her affection for me deserved
better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the
tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any
return. I wish — I heartily wish it had never been. But I have
injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for
me — (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose
mind — Oh! how infinitely superior!"—

"Your indifference, however,
towards that unfortunate girl — I must say it, unpleasant to me as the
discussion of such a subject may well be — your indifference is no
apology for your cruel neglect of her. Do not think yourself excused by any
weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton
cruelty so evident on yours. You must have known, that while you were
enjoying yourself in Devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always
happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence."

"But, upon my soul, I
did NOT know it,"he warmly
replied; "I did not recollect
that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have
told her how to find it out."

"Well, sir, and what said
Mrs. Smith?"

"She taxed me with the
offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life,
the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world — every thing
was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every
endeavour to soften it. She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the
morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the
very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had
bestowed on her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach.
By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality,
good woman! she offered to forgive the past, if I would marry Eliza. That
could not be — and I was formally dismissed from her favour and her
house. The night following this affair — I was to go the next morning
— was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.
The struggle was great — but it ended too soon. My affection for
Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me — it was all
insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those
false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to
feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself
secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself
to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. A heavy
scene however awaited me, before I could leave Devonshire; — I was
engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore
necessary for my breaking this engagement. But whether I should write this
apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate. To see
Marianne, I felt, would be dreadful, and I even doubted whether I could see
her again, and keep to my resolution. In that point, however, I undervalued
my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for I went, I saw her, and saw
her miserable, and left her miserable — and left her hoping never to
see her again."

"Why did you call, Mr.
Willoughby?"said Elinor,
reproachfully; "a note would have
answered every purpose. — Why was it necessary to call?"

"It was necessary to my own
pride. I could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead
you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had
really passed between Mrs. Smith and myself — and I resolved therefore
on calling at the cottage, in my way to Honiton. The sight of your dear
sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, I found
her alone. You were all gone I do not know where. I had left her only the
evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!
A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how
happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham,
satisfied with myself, delighted with every body! But in this, our last
interview of friendship, I approached her with a sense of guilt that almost
took from me the power of dissembling. Her sorrow, her disappointment, her
deep regret, when I told her that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so
immediately — I never shall forget it — united too with such
reliance, such confidence in me! — Oh, God! — what a
hard-hearted rascal I was!"

They were both silent for a
few moments. Elinor first spoke.

"Did you tell her that you
should soon return?"

"I do not know what I
told her," he replied,
impatiently; "less than was due to
the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was
justified by the future. I cannot think of it. — It won't do.
— Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her
kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it DID torture me. I was
miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it
gives me to look back on my own misery. I owe such a grudge to myself
for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past
sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. Well, I
went, left all that I loved, and went to those to whom, at best, I was
only indifferent. My journey to town — travelling with my own
horses, and therefore so tediously — no creature to speak to
— my own reflections so cheerful — when I looked forward
every thing so inviting! — when I looked back at Barton, the
picture so soothing! — oh, it was a blessed journey!"

He stopped.

"Well, sir,"said Elinor, who, though
pitying him, grew impatient for his departure,"and this is all?"

"Ah! — no, —
have you forgot what passed in town? — That infamous letter —
Did she shew it you?"

"Yes, I saw every note that
passed."

"When the first of hers
reached me (as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time,) what I
felt is — in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple
one — perhaps too simple to raise any emotion — my feelings were
very, very painful. — Every line, every word was — in the
hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid
— a dagger to my heart. To know that Marianne was in town was —
in the same language — a thunderbolt. — Thunderbolts and
daggers! — what a reproof would she have given me! — her taste,
her opinions — I believe they are better known to me than my own,
— and I am sure they are dearer."

Elinor's heart, which had
undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was
now softened again; — yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in
her companion as the last.

"This is not right, Mr.
Willoughby. — Remember that you are married. Relate only what in your
conscience you think necessary for me to hear."

"Marianne's note, by
assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite
of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her
own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever,
awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London, business
and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a
fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to
fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of
our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my
shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming
every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'I shall be heartily glad to
hear she is well married.' — But this note made me know myself better.
I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the
world, and that I was using her infamously. But every thing was then just
settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had
to do, was to avoid you both. I sent no answer to Marianne, intending by
that to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time I was
even determined not to call in Berkeley Street; — but at last, judging
it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything
else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my
name."

"Watched us out of the
house!"

"Even so. You would be
surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of
falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the
carriage drove by. Lodging as I did in Bond Street, there was hardly a day
in which I did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but
the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing
desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long. I avoided
the Middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely
to prove an acquaintance in common. Not aware of their being in town,
however, I blundered on Sir John, I believe, the first day of his coming,
and the day after I had called at Mrs. Jennings's. He asked me to a party, a
dance at his house in the evening. — Had he NOT told me as an
inducement that you and your sister were to be there, I should have felt it
too certain a thing, to trust myself near him. The next morning brought
another short note from Marianne — still affectionate, open, artless,
confiding — everything that could make MY conduct most hateful. I
could not answer it. I tried — but could not frame a sentence. But I
thought of her, I believe, every moment of the day. If you CAN pity me, Miss
Dashwood, pity my situation as it was THEN. With my head and heart full of
your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman! —
Those three or four weeks were worse than all. Well, at last, as I need not
tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure I cut! — what
an evening of agony it was! — Marianne, beautiful as an angel on one
side, calling me Willoughby in such a tone! — Oh, God! — holding
out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes
fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face! — and Sophia, jealous as
the devil on the other hand, looking all that was — Well, it does not
signify; it is over now. — Such an evening! — I ran away from
you all as soon as I could; but not before I had seen Marianne's sweet face
as white as death. — THAT was the last, last look I ever had of her;
— the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight!
— yet when I thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of
comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those,
who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as
I travelled, in the same look and hue."

A short pause of mutual
thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby first rousing himself, broke it
thus:

"Well, let me make haste and
be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?"

"We are assured of
it."

"Your poor mother, too!
— doting on Marianne."

"But the letter, Mr.
Willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?"

"Yes, yes, THAT in
particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning.
You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons, — and her
letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It
happened to catch Sophia's eye before it caught mine — and its size,
the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her
a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to
some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation
the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more
jealous than ever. Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is
delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read
its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her
wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion — her
malice — At all events it must be appeased. And, in short — what
do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing? — delicate —
tender — truly feminine — was it not?"

"Your wife! — The
letter was in your own hand-writing."

"Yes, but I had only the
credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name
to. The original was all her own — her own happy thoughts and gentle
diction. But what could I do! — we were engaged, every thing in
preparation, the day almost fixed — But I am talking like a fool.
Preparation! — day! — In honest words, her money was necessary
to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a
rupture. And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion
of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched? —
It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a
scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little
importance. — 'I am ruined for ever in their opinion — ' said I
to myself — 'I am shut out for ever from their society, they already
think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a
blackguard one.' Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate
carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of
Marianne. Her three notes — unluckily they were all in my pocketbook,
or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever — I
was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of
hair — that too I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book,
which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence,
— the dear lock — all, every memento was torn from me."

"You are very wrong, Mr.
Willoughby, very blamable,"said Elinor, while her
voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak
in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You had made your
own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your
politeness, to your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or
she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak
of her slightingly is no atonement to Marianne — nor can I suppose
it a relief to your own conscience."

"Do not talk to me of my
wife,"said he with a heavy
sigh. — "She does not deserve
your compassion. — She knew I had no regard for her when we
married. — Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to
be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay. — And now do
you pity me, Miss Dashwood? — or have I said all this to no
purpose? — Am I — be it only one degree — am I less
guilty in your opinion than I was before? — My intentions were not
always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?"

"Yes, you have certainly
removed something — a little. — You have proved yourself, on the
whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less
wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know — the misery that you have
inflicted — I hardly know what could have made it worse."

"Will you repeat to your
sister when she is recovered, what I have been telling you? — Let me
be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours.You tell me thatshe has forgiven me
already.Let me be able to fancy that
a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from
her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified,
forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence — tell her that my
heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she
is dearer to me than ever."

"I will tell her all that is
necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification. But you
have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how
you heard of her illness."

"Last night, in Drury Lane
lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was —
for the first time these two months — he spoke to me. — That he
had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or
resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of
indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the
temptation of telling me what he knew ought to — though probably he
did not think it WOULD — vex me horridly. As bluntly as he could speak
it, therefore,he told me thatMarianne Dashwood
was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland — a letter that morning
received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent — the
Palmers are all gone off in a fright,&c. — I was too
much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the
undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so
much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me
by the hand whilehe reminded me ofan old promise
about a pointer puppy.What I felt on hearing that
your sister was dying — and dying too, believing me the greatest
villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments — for
how could I tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed? ONE
person I was sure would represent me as capable of any thing — What I
felt was dreadful! — My resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock
this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all."

Elinor made no
answer.Her thoughts were silently
fixedon the irreparable
injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of
idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the
happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a
disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper.
The world had made him extravagant and vain — Extravagance and vanity
had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty
triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment,
which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be
sacrificed. Each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him
likewise to punishment. The attachment, from which against honour, against
feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now,
when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for
the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery,
was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more
incurable nature.From a reverie of this kind
she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing
himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation
for going, and said —

"There is no use in staying
here; I must be off."

"Are you going back to
town?"

"No — to Combe Magna.
I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good
bye."

He held out his hand. She
could not refuse to give him hers; — he pressed it with
affection.

"And you DO think something
better of me than you did?"— said he, letting it fall,
and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go.

Elinor assured him
thatshe did; — that
she forgave, pitied, wished him well — was even interested in his
happiness —and added some gentle
counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not
very encouraging.

"As to that," said he, "I must rub through the
world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If,
however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my
fate and actions, it may be the means — it may put me on my guard
— at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne to be sure
is lost to me for ever. Were I even by any blessed chance at liberty
again — "

Elinor stopped him with a
reproof.

"Well," — he replied
—"once more good bye. I
shall now go away and live in dread of one event."

"What do you mean?"

"Your sister's
marriage."

"You are very wrong. She can
never be more lost to you than she is now."

"But she will be gained by
some one else. And if that some one should be the very he whom, of all
others, I could least bear — but I will not stay to rob myself of all
your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where I have most injured I can
least forgive. Good bye, — God bless you!"